


For All Sad Words Of Tongue and Pen

by Draikinator



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Codependency, Gen, Post Game, Post pacifist, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Second Person, frisk is a professional dancer slash martial artist because i said so, reader is sans, this is years later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 10:59:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5245799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draikinator/pseuds/Draikinator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The saddest this: I forgive your sins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For All Sad Words Of Tongue and Pen

Frisk was kind of breathtaking to watch dance, in all honesty. It was no wonder they sold out seats like there was no tomorrow. Despite the fact you could find videos on youtube people flew from all over to see. Really, you couldn’t blame them. Frisk never did the same dance twice and it was always a spectacle- it had started as a part of Mettaton’s act, Frisk’s half-dance half-martial arts, ducking under bullets and springboarding over explosions. They did it on their own now, a minor sensation as far as largely independent non-musical live performances went.

You think, a little cynically, people always wanted to be at the show Frisk finally got hit by something, though. Not that they ever would; Frisk never misstepped, and even if they did, no one here would know about it. You hated reloads, but it was nice to see them so happy for once.

You had camped out in the front row, stretched out over two seats. Frisk had been kind enough to give you two tickets, probably with the assumption you would give the second one to someone else, but you know what they say about assumptions.

If Frisk noticed the way you use the extra ticket this time, they didn’t mention it afterward, sweaty and tired and thoroughly enjoying the bottle of ketchup you’d brought them for afterwards- a dirty condiment-drinking habit that Toriel hated you’d given them, but hey, kid had always eaten some weird stuff. You get a flashback of dry noodles and butterscotch pie and shake it away with a clench of your fists.

* * *

 

It’s almost a surprise when Asgore dies.

Or at least, it’s a surprise to a lot of people. Not to you, though. You spent enough time with the kid that it’s clear the profound effect they’ve had on him- you’ve seen the gray hairs in his beard, the dusty pallor of his skin, beneath the fur. Telltale signs of an old monster. And Asgore was old- profoundly so. Him and Toriel were the oldest monsters you were aware existed.

No one had ever expected him to die, though. He’d been so old for so long, everyone expected him to live forever. With his son dead, you didn’t blame them.

They hadn’t seen him around Frisk, though. You weren’t even certain it was really happening at first, and then one day, he’d been reading them a bedtime story, using fire magic to cast shadow puppets on the far wall, doing these gruff silly voices and you just knew. He was getting older. Even you didn’t really expect him to die, though.

And then he did.

* * *

 

Frisk doesn’t say anything during the funeral. You aren’t surprised, of course, it’s not uncommon for them to fall into long bouts of nonverbal days or weeks.

They’re standing by the coffin filled with dust the entire time. They lean over it, silent and still while the attendees scoop a cup of it to spread on the item they’ve brought that he loved- Alphys brings his favourite tea cup, and Undyne brings his armour. The room is filled with those golden flowers he loved and they make you tense and nervous, but no one else will ever know why, so you keep your silence. Toriel’s standing in the back of the room, looking shell shocked, somewhere between grief and hate. She had briefly suggested going back to the Underground to find whatever was left of those other six humans bodies in their coffins below the throne room and spreading his fust on those, since it was clearly the only thing he’d cared about, but you think that was mostly the grief talking. She’d still never really forgiven him for what he’d done, and you don’t blame her, but you wish she had, if only for some closure. She’d never get it now.

You bring a whoopee cushion on your turn, and you don’t miss Pap’s frown across the seats, but you’d given this particular one to him a few years ago and he used it without abandon. He wasn’t a very good practical joker, but you two didn’t have much else in common. Frisk gives you a watery look when you stand next to them, and you move a hand to put it on their shoulder, but they flinch away, so you don’t. You wish they’d leave the dust and come sit with you. You wish you wanted that because they were so clearly upset and you want to comfort them, but you’re upset too, and you’re the one who needs to hold someone, but you don’t know how to say that, so you don’t. You sit back down.

Frisk waits until everyone else is done to take their turn and ignores the cups hanging on the side of the coffin, which is generally considered rude, but they’re human, so you don’t think anyone will hold it against them, but your breath catches in your throat when they reach into the little remaining piles of dust and grab a fistful in one shaking hand, raise it over their head and let it go.

There’s utter silence in the room while Frisk stands at the front of the room in front of Asgore’s coffin and lets his dust cover their head. You get flashbacks you quash down with trembling, taut fists and when you open eyes you hadn’t realized you’d closed, Frisk has turned away from the front and is slowly walking towards the exit. You consider stopping them, but there’s dust on their face and you can’t move. They push one of the double doors open gently and vanish into the twilight evening.

* * *

 

They cancel their next show, which doesn’t surprise you. No one’s seen them in two weeks, but you texted them three days ago and asked if they needed anything. They said no, so you let it drop. Frisk has always been independent, and Frisk has always had issues. They love Toriel, clearly, and had loved Asgore, but you don’t think they’ve ever really trusted Toriel to be there for them when something was really wrong. That position was saved for you, apparently, the one they came to with night terrors and panic attacks and fears of possession and guilt.

It felt good to be able to help them, when you couldn’t even help yourself. The longer they were gone, though, the antsier you were becoming. Toriel was nearly inconsolable, locked up in her house like a hermit, like she was back in the ruins, guarding a door no one wanted to open. Undyne was sparring with Papyrus almost nonstop, and you didn’t know what to say to him about it. He just kept saying it was important and you couldn’t help.

You hated it.

So when they showed up at your door in the rain, you hated the sick sense of delight in the pit of your nonexistent gut that you had been the one they came to, soaked to the bone and tired looking in the middle of the night.

They push past you, gently, and trudge to where they know your shower was. You dig out some of their clothes from where they’d left them last time they’d stayed the night and set the outside the bathroom door. You don’t really know what to do with yourself until they’re done, so you don’t really do anything, sitting on your couch, twiddling your phalanxes together anxiously. You hear the shower click off, a brief shuffle, and the door open.

They come downstairs cleaner, at least, and looking somewhat less miserable, in the clothes you left them, toweling off their hair.

“Dinner,” they say, voice hoarse from obvious disuse. You nod and hop over the couch and into the kitchen, pulling some cold pizza out of the fridge and tossing it into the microwave. They collapse at the table, head in their elbows, like they’ve never sat down before in their life. You wait until the pizza’s finished and slide it across the table at them.

They stare at it for a long second, like they’re making some kind of decision, before tearing into it hungrily. You grab a bottle of ketchup off the table and go to drink it when they grab your hand.

“Don’t,” they say, giving you a pleading look. You furrow your eye socket together, confused.

“why not?”

They gesture at the reheated pizza on their plate, “Real food. Please.”

“i don’t need to,” you say quietly, because you’ve had this conversation, “i don’t need food to live like you do.”

They continue giving you that pleading look, because they know that you know that they know your shitty ketchup diet is because you always expect to die and you want it to look good, but you had thought they didn’t think it mattered.

“Sans,” they say, and their tired voice cracks on your name. You set the bottle down and take a slice from their plate. They look placated and grateful and it makes you feel guilty.

You eat silently and when they’re done they make those little grabby hands at you like they did when they were a kid. They’re not a kid, not hardly, they’re an adult now, with their own life, but you guess grief makes you need things you haven’t in awhile. You push your chair back and pull them into one of those long, hard hugs you miss. They breathe out, slowly.

“Thanks,” they say.

You half expect them to make you carry them, but they pull back and go to your room, hands shoved in their pockets. You close the door while they appropriate your unwashed comforter into a burrito and bury themselves in fabric. They curl into you when you plop unceremoniously next to them and thread your arms around their back.

“I’m sorry,” they stammer, “I know that- the- I know. With the dust. I’m sorry.”

“it’s fine,” you say, because it is, they’re very careful with you, and that had been an important, if unsettling statement, “i promise.”

They knead their hands against your jacket absently, “I miss him.”

“yeah,” you say, “me too.”

“I feel like it’s my fault,” they whisper, “if I hadn’t made him love me, he’d still be alive.”

“this is what he wanted,” you sigh, shutting your eyes, “he’s way older than a human could even comprehend. he’d resigned himself to a tragic death. you let him be a dad again, and then you let him go.”

“I thought about going back,” they say, voice quivering, probably because they think you’ll be mad, but you aren’t, because they didn’t actually do it, “just to see him again. I thought maybe I could save him. I still think I could.”

“i think,” you say, and pull them a little tighter when they start to shake, “that if you gave him the choice, this is the ending he would have wanted. thank you. for not.”

They nod, quietly, “I promised.”

“where have you been?” You ask, but you don’t expect them to say.

“Home,” they murmur, and you frown.

“the underground?”

“No. Home, home. From before that.”

“oh,” you say, because they’ve never brought it up before, “how was it?”

“They weren’t there,” Frisk sighs, and you feel the pang of empathetic hurt in your soul, “I didn’t know the people who were there now. So I left.”

“you deserved better,” you say, trying to be consoling, and they flinch.

“You know I don’t,” they whisper, “You of all people know I don’t.”

You’re quiet at this. There’s no response.

“It’s not fair,” they continue, “that I should be the one with second chances at a first impression.” You can’t argue with that, even though you kind of want to. “His dust felt familiar in my hands. It isn’t fair.”

“that person who woke up in the Ruins the first time,” you say, carefully, “is not the person that got us out.”

They’re silent for a moment, and then, weirdly, they laugh, “Sans, you have no idea.”

There’s several minutes of silence and desperate clinging to one another in the dark, like it’s the days right after you’d stood under the sun for the first time and you’ve been woken by crippling night terrors of blood and dust and sins crawling up your spine like scorpions.

“Why didn’t you judge me? That last time,” they say, and won’t meet your eyes, “why did you say I was clean? I- I’ve never been. Just because I brought them back doesn’t mean I didn’t- that it didn’t-”

“hey,” you say, and frown, “look, kiddo. i know you don’t talk about it and i don’t know all the details, but. i could tell… can, tell, that something was… different. I don’t know what, but, i- i judged you clean because i genuinely didn’t believe you were… responsible.”

They flinched again.

“i actually, um,” you continue, words starting to spill together, “i found the google thing when we got up here, right? and i was looking human stuff up on it, and i found a bunch of stuff, like, something called "schizophrenia” and a like, um, “dissociative identity disorder” and i wondered if-“

They cut you off with a laugh, a sad one, "Wow. I’m not nearly as good at hiding it as I thought, am I…? No. It’s not… Anything like that. But it’s close. I… I can’t talk about it.”

“not even with me?”

“Not with anyone,” they say, voice so strained it might break again, “Not ever.”

“…okay,” you say, because you can’t say anything else. There’s a long pause where they just press their face into your jacket and breathe.

“There’s something I need to do,” they say, finally, “I’m… Going to need your help. When I…” They trail off, and take a deep breath, before looking up at you, very seriously, “When I need you, will you come?”

“always,” you say, breathless, confused, more than a little alarmed, “how will I know when you need me?”

“You’ll know,” they say, and their face goes back into their jacket, “Can I sleep here? I’ll go over to Mom’s in the morning.”

“yeah,” you say, and shift, grabbing part of the banket they’ve stolen, “of course.”

“…Thanks, Sans.”

They don’t say anything else before they fall asleep, and you follow them not too long later.

* * *

 

They’re gone when you wake up, and Toriel confirms when you text her that she hasn’t seen them, which isn’t surprising. You wander downstairs and instinctively grab the ketchup off the table before thinking better of it and chucking it into the garbage. It breaks in the can and you can hear the tinkle of shattered glass over uneaten take out and spaghetti.

Your phone buzzes while you’re trying to figure out how the coffee maker on your counter you’ve never touched works and you pick it up, glad for the distraction from human bargain bin appliances. It’s Frisk’s agent- their show tonight has not, in fact, been cancelled, and the tickets they saved you are still on the table.

You get the coffee maker working. Turns out you’re not a big fan, but you finish the cup anyway, because Papyrus bought it for you, so.

At some point you go upstairs and get dressed to leave.

* * *

 

Immediately you can feel a wrongness with this show. The theme was supposed to have been water- Frisk had acquired the help of several water magic users for the routine, even Undyne, who was always happy to help with dramatic entrances. The word “Waterfall” has been crossed out on the signs and been replaced with “Monster.”

You’re unsettled, to say the least, and when you get to the front row, everyone is there. Toriel, and Alphys, and Papyrus, and your empty extra space, and about half the Underground. You slide into your seat next to Toriel and you can see the worry in her eyes- the idea that Frisk needs help she can’t give is taking its toll. You hold her hand and she seems to appreciate the thought. Your other seat remains empty.

And then, just like that, it’s showtime, without any fanfare or exhibition. The lights go down, and when they come back up, slowly, the first thing you notice is their shirt. It’s a blue and pink striped sweater- not the one they had as a kid, obviously, but similar enough that you notice it. The second thing you notice is that the stage is covered in yellow flowers- thickly, up to their shins. They don’t move for a minute, and you almost look at Toriel for her reaction, but just as you’re going to, the mini field they’re standing in bursts into flames, and the show has, essentially, begun.

You can feel the heat on your face and wince imagining what it’s like up there, in the thick of it, dancing in and out of embers, just out of the way, always an inch away from death, but this is far less life threatening than anything anyone had hurled at them before, and you try to keep that in mind when bullets- white, and oblong, probably from some kind of air cannon, rain out of the sides of the curtains. They dodge them like it’s easy, sliding onto their knees and springboarding backwards out of the way of one shot and over another. Toriel’s grip tightens on your hand.

There’s silence and someone steps out from the back of the stage, and you recognize Kid’s armless silhouette, but considering they’re dressed all in black, you’re not sure if you’re supposed to “notice” them. They’re standing in front of the split in the curtain, and for a moment, there’s stillness, before greek fire rains down from the upper scaffolding in chunks. You expect Frisk to move, to dance, to dodge, but they don’t. The first wave hits them and they go down with a shudder and you can see their soul burst from here.

You’re out of your seat with a shout in a second, only for the whole world to fuzz out and come back into focus with you back in your seat, holding Toriel’s hand, probably too tightly. The greek fire rains down. Frisk dodges, effortlessly, sweeping their leg across unburnt ground and stretching their arms up high. You aren’t sure what just happened, but they grab Kid in a practiced looking motion and they spin, twice, until Kid’s on the ground and they’re on top of them, hands against their throat. There’s silence. Frisk stands, and disappears into the dark split of the back curtain.

The crowd cheers as the lights dim and the stage is reset, and just barely in the darkness you can see Kid flip back onto their feet and scurry out of sight. You don’t understand, but your suspicions are rising like the sun.

The lights come back on, very, very white, and Frisk is already going, doing something slow, until the ice magic starts, and what you recognize distinctly as the other dog sentry’s magic. A duck, a dip, a backflip. Frisk turns when Kid steps back out of the curtain, still dressed in black, but this time wearing a red scarf, and you realize with a jolt what’s going on.

There’s a brief scuffle of bone attacks- not from your or Papyrus, but someone, you guess, the little midair twists and spins your friend is famous for, and they land with a thump in front of Kid. You will them to change the story of the show with everything in you, hand tightening like a vice around Toriel, and you can feel her eyes on you. Frisk pulls a knife- you’re close enough to see its fakeness, at least- from their waistband, and jams it two handed into ‘Papyrus,’ who falls back onto the stage. Your breath catches in your throat. Frisk steps over them, and into the split in the curtain. The crowd cheers, but your row is quiet, mostly for confusion, except for you.

“Are you alright, Sans?” Toriel asks you, quietly. You can’t look at her, but you nod, quickly, fingers flexing. She puts her other hand on it, consolingly.

The lights come back on, tinted blue. There’s water magic, an array of flashing lights and darkness. Kid runs across the stage, no longer in black, and Frisk stops dancing, walks toward them, knife clenched in their white knuckled fist. Your mouth is dry. A spear flies from the darkness and lands between them- the lights flicker, and when your eyes readjust, you realize why Undyne wasn’t sitting with you.

It’s a beautiful dance- Undyne is ruthless, uninhibited, spears and magic all flurrying like a tornado that Frisk seems to be in the constant blind spot of, and when they slide under one last jolt of neon blue, they’re standing across the stage from Undyne in the flickering blue light. Undyne summons one last attack from the ground, a hundred spears, probably, and lobs them all at once.

Frisk doesn’t move.

You’re trying to scramble into stage and the blitz of red and Undyne’s horrified, startled cry is ringing in your ears when the world loses focus, and you’re back in your seat. Frisk jumps up, neatly dodges the flurry, and grabs one from the pile, lobbing it back. It strikes Undyne harmlessly, but dramatically, as she falls back, grasping uselessly at the air like she’s dying. She always had a penchant for the dramatics.

Frisk steps over her and into the curtain split.

You cover your eyes for the entire next set, but you can see the red light between your fingers and no matter how you try and block it out, the robotic music from the set makes it clear what’s happening. You struggle for air you can’t find, and Toriel’s hands are on your back, so worried, always worried.

There’s silence.

You look up.

The stage is lit golden-yellow, with the silhouette of pillars against the lighting rigs peering down at them. An audio track is playing the sound of birds and breeze. Frisk is looking at you, silent, still, lit by fake sunlight.

'I need you,’ they mouth, to you, and you alone. You stand up. You push yourself up onto the stage and you can feel Toriel’s hands leave you, reluctantly.

Frisk takes a deep breath, and you mouth 'Why?’ At them, but this isn’t the time for a conversation, apparently. Frisk rushes you, fake knife clasped in their fist like a lifeline and you dive out of the way, and for a moment, you resolve not to do what they clearly want you to, but despite everything, every horrible thing they did in their earliest resets, every mysterious thing they’ve done sense that baffles you to your core, they’re your best friend, and you trust them.

You take both hands out of your pockets.

They dodge the first blast like it’s easy, a volley of tibias that you pull straight out of the air. They duck under the second, with a twist and a spin like some kind of combat ballerina. You send a veritable maze at them that they dodge effortlessly, feet sliding against the stone tiles like they’ve done this a trillion times, and of course they have, the way they’re weaving in between marble pillars, sunlight from a world you’ll never get to see streaming in and flickering on their face, stretched into a weird grin that can’t be human, fingers wrapped around shimmering steel-

You go all out. Gaster Blasters, bones, soul magic, every trick you’ve ever learned, and then-

You hit them.

A Gaster Blast hits them right in the gut and sends them to the ground with a thump. The knife skids across the tile and vanishes from sight. You step up to them, but they don’t move. You think maybe you’ve knocked them out until you’re standing directly over them, and they’re staring at you. They’re not moving, just watching.

You summon a single bone, sharpened tip, and aim it just above their soul.

“Sans,” they say, and you’re not sure where their smile is, “you can, if you want to. It’s okay.”

The yellow sunlight is on their face, and it’s not smiling. It’s not smiling. It’s not smiling.

“frisk,” you say, and the bone drops, clattering to the stage. Now they are smiling, but the good kind, and then stumble back to their feet before crushing you in a hug. The lights dim, and you aren’t even sure how to react to the surreal applause.

* * *

 

“I shouldn’t have done that,” they say, legs kicked up on Undyne and Alphys’s coffee table. They’re shoving those awful dry cucumber chips into there mouth like they’re going to stop making them.

“probably not,” you say, reaching around the bag to grab a handful of cheese cubes from the plastic costco platter Alphys had set out, “but i’m glad you did. …i needed that, i think.”

“Me, too.”

There’s a lull, and you listen to Undyne and Toriel argue about pizza toppings in the kitchen.

“do you believe even the worst person can change?” You say, and notice them visibly perk up. “that anyone can be a good person, if they just try?”

They’re silent, staring at you with this broken look in their eyes and you frown, “because I do. congrats, kid, you proved me right.”

They smile, softly, and you feel warm, for the first time in awhile. Undyne leans in from the door, holding the phone and yelling.

“Hey!” Undyne yells, “Who wants anchovies.”

“gross,” you say, but Frisk immediately raises their hand.

“Ha! Eat it, your majesty!” Undyne yells, ducking back around the door.

“Is it okay if I bring a friend to your next show?” You ask, suddenly, and Frisk looks at you like your head just turned into a pumpkin.

“Seriously?”

“yeah,” you say, “i dunno who. but. you know. someone.”

“Yes,” Frisk says, dropping the bag back on the table, “Absolutely.”

They stand up and look at the door to the kitchen. They look tired and you eye the heating pad still taped to their sore midsection.

“Sans?”

“yeah?” You ask, standing also.

“Do you think Dad would be proud of me?”

You can’t even stifle the laughter that bubbles out of you, “kid, your dad was proud of you from the day he met you. hell, i’m proud of you.”

They chuckle at that and sigh, running their hand through their hair, “Yeah, alright. Come on, let’s go join the party before we end up with another snail and anchovy pizza for dinner.”

“i thought you liked snails and anchovies,” you grimace, stepping around the table. Frisk flashes you a mischievous smile.

“Yeah, but you don’t, you ketchup chugging freak.”

You snort, “yeah, _i’m_ the freak!” You laugh, ruffling their hair, even though you have to reach up to do so, because they’re taller than you now. You walk in the kitchen together and you think to yourself that maybe you want onions.


End file.
